


Dirty Laundry

by Jmeelee



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Identity Reveal, Laundromat, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Secret Identity, barest hint of plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 01:32:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16460894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jmeelee/pseuds/Jmeelee
Summary: His senses tingle before the bell above the frosted glass door can chime.  His eyes dart toward the back of the laundromat where a man is twitching his hips to a tinny pop song blaring through the shitty sound system.  There’s a large, dirty duffle bag bursting at the seams lying next to his feet, and black Converse sneakers that have seen better days. One shoe is missing its laces, and both are streaked with splashes of red paint.It’s not his Spidey sense prickling the back of his neck; just normal intuition, mind and body unwittingly moving toward the man like the gravitational pull of a black hole.He doesn’t bother to turn, speaking at the cracked plaster wall in front of his face, knowing Peter will hear every word over the buzz of the fluorescent lights above his head.  “Of all the laundromats in all the boroughs in the city, he had to walk into mine.”There’s a fifty percent chance he’s talking to Peter, but it’s as likely he’s talking to one of the voices in his head.  And those red spots on his shoes probably aren’t paint.  “Hello, Wade.  You’ve picked the perfect place for us to air our dirty laundry.”





	Dirty Laundry

Peter’s wearing his go-to Avenger’s disguise—dark baseball cap, thick black-rimmed glasses with clear lenses, dark zip-up hoodie—and munching his last bite of turkey and cheddar on wheat from the 24-hour deli on Queens Boulevard.  The streets are chilly and quiet this time of night, the rustle of leaves whispering along the pavement a welcome change from the typical wail of police and ambulance sirens.  His suit is stuffed into the recesses of the messenger bag hanging off his shoulder; he’d removed it two hours ago in an alleyway in College Point.  He glances at his phone screen; there are only ten minutes left on his dry cycle at _Mom’s Coin Wash,_ then he can pick up his fresh, clean clothes and head home.  Maybe catch a few hours of sleep before his 11am class. 

His senses tingle before the bell above the frosted glass door can chime.  A familiar fragrance filters through the damp, syrupy scents of detergent and bleach.  His eyes dart toward the back of the long, narrow facility where a man—a big, broad-shouldered man—is twitching his hips to a tinny pop song blaring through the shitty sound system.  He’s throwing wet clothes into the white utility dryer directly next to Peter’s, despite a row of sixteen other empty dryers he could use at three o’clock on a Monday morning.  The man’s ample back is covered in a soft maroon sweatshirt, hood pulled over his head, and faded gray sweatpants hug legs thick as tree trunks.  There’s a large, dirty duffle bag bursting at the seams lying next to his feet, and black Converse sneakers that have seen better days. One shoe is missing its laces, and both are streaked with splashes of red paint.

It’s not his Spidey sense prickling the back of his neck; just normal intuition, mind and body unwittingly moving toward the man like the gravitational pull of a black hole.

He doesn’t bother to turn, speaking at the cracked plaster wall in front of his face, knowing Peter will hear every word over the buzz of the fluorescent lights above his head.  “Of all the laundromats in all the boroughs in the city, he had to walk into mine.”

There’s a fifty percent chance he’s talking to Peter, but it’s as likely he’s talking to one of the voices in his head.  And those red spots on his shoes probably aren’t paint.  “Hello, Wade.  You’ve picked the perfect place for us to air our dirty laundry.”

He’s not surprised Wade Wilson’s figured out who he is—there’ve been too many times Peter has been wounded or torn his mask for Wade _not_ to have seen enough of his face to put the pieces together.  No matter how dark it is outside, the city that never sleeps is always lit up like a Christmas tree.  Despite all his stupid antics, Wade isn’t dumb.  So, as he watches the notorious Deadpool stuff six dryer sheets into a machine, Peter feels like he has the who, what, where, when and how of the situation figured out; it’s the _why_ that has him stumped.

“Those things are laden with cancer-causing chemicals,” Peter says, watching Wade fist another three dryer sheets from their box.  It’s a horrible thing to say—Wade’s gallows humor shitting all over Peter’s normal sass—but they’ve hung each other out to dry with worse insults over the years.

Deadpool shrugs one massive shoulder, slams the lid of the dryer.  “Good thing I made cancer my bitch years ago.”  And that’s when Wade turns around, lowers his hood, and they come face to face for the first time in two years.

Peter is only human, despite his super strength and superior senses; he’d be lying through his pearly whites if he said he wasn’t curious about what Deadpool looks like under his mask. He uses the glimpses he’s stolen over the years when Wade has tucked his mask over his lips to scarf tacos, ice cream and chimichangas, to concoct a fantasy version in his mind's eye.  He knows the skin is blotchy and disfigured, but nothing he’s imagined could prepare him for what he sees.

Everyone has scars, including Spider-man, but for better or worse, most people wear them on the inside, like he does.  Seeing the physical representation of the hell that is Wade Wilson’s life carved into his features is humbling.  Peter is twenty-two, but looking at Wade makes him feel very, very young.  

When Peter was a child, Aunt May and Uncle Ben brought him to the hospital to visit with Grandma Parker after her chemotherapy and radiation treatments.  Her once round, robust face was gaunt, and she’d lost all her hair, except for one small patch clinging to the back of her skull, as stubborn as she was.  “I refuse to shave it,” she’d told Peter with a tired wink, gently fingering the reddish-brown strands.  “I’m much too vain.”  He feels seven years old again, a confusing cocktail of fear, grief and fondness swirling in his belly, expanding into the spaces between his ribs, when he sees Wade has the same small patches sprouting from his head. 

In middle school Peter had done a research project on the ruins of Ancient Greece.  He thinks of the Acropolis and the Temple of Apollo now as he gazes at Wade’s face.  Deadpool is hideous.  He’s a mess of mottled, leathery, discolored skin that looks like it’s been pasted together by an angry child; a warped mass of disorder.  But under the destruction is a strong, chiseled jaw and granite cheekbones.  Peter can feel his fingertips tingle, wanting to explore and excavate layer by layer, uncover the fragmented beauty that remains.

Wade closely watches his face, gauging Peter’s trepidation and reluctant compassion as he does his own survey.  What the infamous Deadpool sees as his eyes roam over him from head to toe, Peter can only guess.  “Where’s your macchiato, hipster?  Are you eating avocado toast?”

“Is there something wrong?”  Peter asks, ignoring the barb aimed at the crotch of his skinny jeans.  “Do you need my help?”  Maybe Wade is wounded under the civilian clothes.  As far as Peter can tell, the speed of Wade’s healing seems to depend on the severity of his wounds and his mental state, and he always seems to heal faster when Peter is around.  He wants to ask how Deadpool tracked him down to his neighborhood laundromat, but he’d rather not jump on a merry-go-round and spin in circles.

“Yeah, actually.  Can you spare some change?  These piece of shit machines don’t accept Canadian quarters.  I think they’re racist.”

Peter points to his laundry basket, and Deadpool rummages around under the detergent, locates his money.  He hums a jaunty, off-key tune while he slips the coins into the slot.

He turns back to Peter without starting the cycle,  leaning back against the dryer and crossing one ankle over the other.  He’s the picture of preternatural stillness that Peter knows can be shattered in a nanosecond, all taut, furious control.  “Thanks.  My underwear was all dirty, and I needed a clean pair for our slumber party pillow fight.”

“No,” Peter says.

“No underwear?  Jeez Spider-man, I didn’t realize you were so kinky.”

“Wade,” he sighs, already exasperated.   He pulls off the fake glasses and rubs his eyes.

“Peter Parker,” he retorts with a knowing smirk.  Peter sucks in an audible breath.  Wade has never used his real name before.  Hearing it fall from those cracked, dry, dangerous lips is daunting and exhilarating in equal measure.  

 _You’re friends you’re friends you’re friends_ his conscience screams as his body stiffens.  He wants to believe Wade wouldn’t blow the whistle on him, values the relationship they’ve forged in the face of danger, but their partnership is still in its infancy compared to his lifetime of abuse and betrayal, and Wade’s morals—though better since they’ve teamed up— are as distorted as his features.  

Peter is the stronger of the two, by far.  They’re of similar height, but Wade has _presence_. He takes up so much _space_ that Peter feels small.  That doesn’t stop him from stalking forward, shoving aside a metal rolling cart that bangs against an empty washer, pressing a finger violently into the zipper on Wade’s hoodie.  “Tell me you won’t betray me,” he demands.  “Tell me you’re not the same selfish prick you were before.”

“I’m not here to cause you problems, Webs,” Wade replies, and he’s only said it once but Peter already misses the sound of his real name rolling around Deadpool’s mouth.  “I won’t hurt you.”  

Peter laughs.  “You expect me to believe you? To trust you?”

“I do,” Wade says, standing up to full height.  He grabs the wrist attached to the finger digging into his chest, encircling the fragile bones with his fist.  Peter’s strength is unmatched; he could easily break the hold, but he doesn’t. “I’m here to level the playing field.”  Peter pictures a baseball field blown to hell, fire licking down the baseline and a dirt wasteland in the outfield, and though that’s not what Deadpool means, it’s most likely going to be the result.  But same as any impending disaster, Peter can’t seem to look away.

“So here we are,” Peter says softly, “Spider-man and Deadpool, unmasked.  You’ve shown me yours, and I’ve shown you mine.  What now?”

Wade touches Peter’s cheek with a rough, dry hand.  “Now I fuck shit up again.  Life’s a game, and I play to win.  And you know I don’t follow rules.” 

“My god. That’s the worst metaphor I’ve ever heard.”

He slants a lascivious smile at Peter.  “Worked though, didn’t it?”  Wade deftly pops the button on Peter’s jeans and lowers the zip, tugging them down to tangle around his ankles, slips a strong arm around Peter’s torso and throws him on top of the dryer.  

Peter Parker is a science nerd, through and through, so he know this is simply a chemical reaction finally reaching its flash point.

“Tell me you don’t want it, baby boy,” Wade whispers.  “Tell me, and I’ll stop.”  And Peter should.  He _should_.  But he won’t, because he doesn’t like to lie.

When no complaint is immediately forthcoming, Wade reaches forward, crowding into Peter’s space, and presses the _start_ button.  The machine hums to life and Wade darts forward, pressing his mouth against Peter’s.  Peter inhales sharply through his nose, surprised, but he doesn’t resist as Wade pushes the tip of his tongue between his lips. Instead, he makes a soft, hungry sound, and slides a hand around the back of Wade’s skull.  He’s lost in the juxtaposition of Wade’s mouth; the smooth, lush tongue and velvety heat, the roughness of his lips.

They break away when Peter emits a small hitching sound, a whimper of acquiescence stolen from his throat by the devastating kiss.   Wade glances down at the bulge in the cotton briefs stretched tight over the curve of Peter’s erection, and chuckles.  “White panties? Could you be any more perfect, pretty boy?”

“They’re briefs, not pant—” Peter’s rant is cut short when Wade opens his mouth wide, sucking and licking on the slick wet spot already seeping through the white cotton.  The heat of his mouth, the friction of the fabric, the rumble of the dryer spark white-hot pleasure in his balls, already driving Peter to distraction.  Wade’s eyes close and he licks at the bulge, wetting the fabric until it’s translucent, and wraps his lips around Peter’s cock as best he can through the thin barrier.

Wade rears back, one hand fisting the flimsy fabric at Peter’s hip, the other hooking two fingers into the fly of the underwear, and he _pulls_.  The fabric shreds apart, and Peter’s cock springs free.

“Make all the noise you want, Spidey.  Ain’t nobody here but us chickens.”  He smiles at Peter, and _god_ , he sees it again, the esoteric beauty preserved against the grueling test of time.  “Holy shit,” he says with glee.  “I’m going to suck Spider-man’s dick.”  Then there’s a bald head in Peter’s lap and his cock is engulfed in wet heat, and _oh, oh, oh_.

Wade’s sweatshirt tickles the backs of Peter’s knees as he wraps his thighs around Wade’s neck.  His own breathing is harsh in his ears.  He’s not sure if Wade is breathing at all.  He doesn’t take his time, and he isn’t gentle.  He sucks hard, talented tongue hugging the underside of Peter’s dick, drawing his orgasm out like a long, slow drag of a cigarette.  The nickname _merc with a mouth_ takes on a whole new connotation for Peter—he’ll never hear it again without picturing himself spread out like a buffet on top of a Whirlpool—and a pained laugh escapes from his lips, turning into a low whine when Wade grabs his hips with both hands, and pushes Peter into his throat.

The vibration of the dryer against his ass and his balls is now accompanied by the hum in Wade’s tight throat, hungry little sounds that have Peter curling over Deadpool’s scarred head, holding on for dear life, fingers scrabbling over the those small, forlorn tufts of remaining blonde hair.  He tries desperately not to rabbit his hips and fuck Wade’s face, but fails miserably. If anyone were to walk in the shop right now, Peter wouldn’t be able to stop; he’s too far gone, has been since they started this crazy alliance.

His whine climbs higher, and Wade adjusts his hold, letting one hand travel smoothly down to Peter’s balls where they're drawing up, tightening to his body.  He gets two fingers and a thumb around them and tugs, and Peter jerks with a strangled cry, chokes on his own tongue as he cums, sudden and hot and fast into Wade’s mouth.

After the last drop is swallowed, Deadpool backs away a few inches, face smeared with saliva.  There’s cooling spit running down Peter’s balls, dripping onto the lid of the dryer. 

“There’s something I think you should know,” Wade says, voice like gravel, mouth wet and red.  And Peter’s not sure what he thinks Wade will say, what he wants him to say.  He’s as fickle as the wind, bursting in and roaring about, upending Peter’s life only to rush out soon after.  Why should sex change the dynamic?  Stubbornly, Peter tells himself he isn’t going to care, he _can’t_ , not when Deadpool is so volatile.  

Wade laughs, looking genuinely _happy_ , and whatever’s been swelling behind Peter’s ribs pops.  “You need to eat some pineapple, sweet cheeks.”

The joke sinks in and he punches Wade in the arm, _hard_ .  And the slight disappointment Peter tramples down outs him; he’s not quite as uncaring as he’d have Wade—and _himself_ —believe.

“The field isn’t level,” Peter says, breathless, “at least not from where I sit.  Come back to my apartment, let me remedy that.”

Wade steps back, and there is a dark grey stain on the front of his sweats.   _Holy fuck_ , he made Deadpool cum in his pants.  “Too late, goody-two-shoes.  But next time I’ll take you up on the offer.”

Before tonight, he hadn’t seen Deadpool in a month, and prior to that it had been five weeks.   He’s been to the man’s apartment, eaten the ice cream in his freezer, played his video games, binge watched _Grey’s Anatomy._  They’ve worked seamlessly together; Wade’s saved his life.  And now this. 

“What do you _want_?” Peter whispers, loud enough to be heard over the purr of the dryer still rumbling underneath his ass.  

“I want you to come get pancakes with me,” Deadpool replies.  He holds out one rough, reddened hand. 

“Hang on,” Peter replies, hopping down and moving to his dryer, rummaging through the still-warm clothes.  He can feel Deadpool’s eyes on his naked ass as he bends over.  He emerges with two clean pairs of underwear.  “I’ll go,” he says, handing them to Wade, “on one condition.”

“I promise not to kill anyone.”

Peter laughs.  “Thanks but that wasn’t the condition this time.  I want… I want you to say my name again.”

As they re-dress, the sun peeks over the horizon, a soft blush of pink as the city rubs the crust from its eyes, and Peter takes Wade’s warm, well-creased hand.

“Ready, Peter?” Wade asks.  He feels a sense of desperate completion at the sound of his own name.  The words have him reaching tentative fingers up to Wade’s face, tracing reverently across his cheek, lips, and chin.  Wade allows the caress, leans into it like a flower turning its face to the sun, dipping his mouth down to drag softly across Peter’s palm.

“Yeah.”  Peter smiles.  “Let’s do this.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first SpideyPool fic. I hope you enjoyed. Thanks for reading.
> 
> A HUGE thank you to my beta's [Only_More_Love](https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_more_love/pseuds/only_more_love) and [AJenno](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJenno/pseuds/AJenno).


End file.
